Eighth Reader Part 17

Ah, how many times people have said to me, "What! do you love cats?"

"Certainly."

"Well, don't you love dogs better?"

"No, I prefer cats every time."

"Oh, that's very queer!"

The truth is, I would rather have neither cat nor dog. But when I am obliged to live with one of these beings, I always choose the cat. I will tell you why.

The cat seems to me to have the manners most necessary to good society.

In her early youth she has all the graces, all the gentleness, all the unexpectedness that the most artistic imagination could desire. She is smart; she never loses herself. She is prudent, going everywhere, looking into everything, breaking nothing.

The cat steals fresh mutton just as the dog steals it, but, unlike the dog, she takes no delight in carrion. She is fastidiously clean--and in this respect, she might well be imitated by many of her detractors. She washes her face, and in so doing foretells the weather into the bargain.

You may please yourself by putting a ribbon around her neck, but never a collar; she cannot be enslaved.

In short, the cat is a dignified, proud, disdainful animal. She defies advances and tolerates no insults. She abandons the house in which she is not treated according to her merits. She is, in both origin and character, a true aristocrat, while the dog is and always will be, a mere vulgar parvenu.

The only serious argument that can be urged against the cat is that she destroys the birds, not caring whether they are sparrows or nightingales. If the dog does less, it is because of his stupidity and clumsiness, not because he is above such business. He also runs after the birds; but his foolish barking warns them of his coming, and as they fly away he can only watch them with open mouth and drooping tail.

The dog submits himself to the slavery of the collar in order to be taught the art of circ.u.mventing rabbits and pigeons--and this not for his own profit, but for the pleasure of his master, the hunter. Foolish, foolish fellow! An animal himself, he delights in persecuting other animals at the command of the man who beats him.

But the cat, when she catches a bird, has a good excuse for her cruelty--she catches it only to eat it herself. Shall she be slandered for such an act? Before condemning her, men may well think of their own shortcomings. They will find among themselves, as well as in the race of cats, many individuals who have claws and often use them for the destruction of those who are gifted with wings.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 36: Translated from Alexandre Dumas, a noted French novelist (1802-1870).]

EXPRESSION: In what does the humor of this selection consist? Read aloud and with expression the pa.s.sages which appeal to you as the most enjoyable. Do you agree with all the statements made by the author? Read these with which you disagree, and then give reasons for your disagreement.

THE OWL CRITIC[37]

"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop; The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop; The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The _Daily_, the _Herald_, the _Post_, little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mister Brown,"

Cried the youth, with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, How preposterous each wing is, How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is-- In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis?

I make no apology; I've learned owl-eology, I've pa.s.sed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskillful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.

Mister Brown! Mister Brown!

Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughingstock all over town!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Owl Critic.]

"I've _studied_ owls, And other night fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true: An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed; No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that att.i.tude.

He can't _do_ it, because 'Tis against all bird laws.

Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches, An owl has a toe That _can't_ turn out so!

I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!

Mister Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd!

To _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed _him_ don't half know his business!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes.

I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pa.s.s Off on you such poor gla.s.s; So unnatural they seem They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff.

Do take that bird down: Have him stuffed again, Brown!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark I could stuff in the dark An owl better than that.

I could make an old hat Look more like an owl than that horrid fowl Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coa.r.s.e leather.

In fact, about _him_ there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance a.n.a.lytic, And then fairly hooted, as if he should say, "Your learning's at fault _this_ time, anyway; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.

I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good day!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 37: By James T. Fields, an American publisher and author (1817-1881).]

MRS. CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE[38]

Bah! That's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to do? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold? Indeed! He doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd better have taken cold than taken our umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, DO YOU HEAR THE RAIN?

Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult me. He return the umbrella? Anybody would think you were born yesterday. As if anybody ever did return an umbrella!

I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow.

They shan't go through such weather, I'm determined. No! they shall stay at home and never learn anything--the blessed creatures--sooner than go and get wet. And when they grow up, I wonder whom they'll have to thank for knowing nothing--who, indeed, but their father?

But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes! I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow--you knew that--and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate to have me to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle.

No, sir; if it comes down in bucketfuls I'll go all the more.

No! and I won't have a cab! Where do you think the money's to come from?

You've got nice, high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed! Cost me sixteen pence at least--sixteen pence?--two-and-eight-pence, for there's back again! Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who is to pay for them! I can't pay for them, and I'm sure you can't if you go on as you do; throwing away your property and beggaring your children, buying umbrellas.

Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, DO YOU HEAR IT? But I don't care--I'll go to mother's to-morrow, I will; and what's more, I'll walk every step of the way; and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman; it's you that's the foolish man. You know I can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold--it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall--and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will! It will teach you to lend your umbrella again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death; and that's what you lent your umbrella for. Of course!

Nice clothes I shall get, too, traipsing through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoiled quite. Needn't I wear them, then?

Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear them. No, sir; I'm not going out a dowdy to please you or anybody else. Gracious knows, it isn't often I step over the threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave at once--better, I should say. But when I go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a lady.

Ugh! I look forward with dread for to-morrow. How I'm to go to mother's I'm sure I can't tell. But, if I die, I'll go. No, sir; I won't _borrow_ an umbrella.

No; and you shan't _buy_ one. Mr. Caudle, if you bring home another umbrella, I'll throw it into the street. Ha! it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that umbrella. I'm sure if I'd known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one, for all of me.